


Ar Hyd y Nos (All Through the Night)

by grelleswife



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Eating Disorders, F/F, Grelle is suffering from dysphoria, Hannah tries to help as best she can, Hurt/Comfort, Trans Female Character, Welsh lullabies, because I have a baseless headcanon that Grelle likes breakfast for dinner, but there will be plenty of comfort in the last half!, crumpets for dinner, female pronouns for Grelle, there is a motherload of hurt at the beginning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-17 14:22:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18967006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grelleswife/pseuds/grelleswife
Summary: Wounded in body and spirit and suffering from dysphoria, Grelle finds solace in Hannah's love.





	Ar Hyd y Nos (All Through the Night)

**Author's Note:**

> As noted in the tags, dysphoria is a major plot point here, so please be forewarned if such content is triggering for you. I'll admit up front that I am a cisgender female, but I have made an effort to portray Grelle's experiences as a trans woman in the Victorian era as respectfully and accurately as possible. Please do let me know your thoughts!

_Hannah._

_I…have to find…Hannah._

Grelle Sutcliff staggered ahead, chest heaving as she drew in another ragged, shaky breath. She dragged her death scythe behind her, paying scant heed to the deep gash it scored along the ground in its wake. Her fingers were deadened into aching numbness as she clutched at the handle with what little reserves of strength she had left. Every muscle in the reaper’s body screamed with fatigue, and her parched throat burned with thirst. A different, fiercer pain emanated from her right leg, which looked as though the enchanted briars from Sleeping Beauty’s fabled castle had attempted to twine themselves inextricably about it. Cruel slashes across her abdomen were clearly visible through the tattered remnants of what had once been a pretty, high-necked red work blouse.

Grelle’s head swam, forcing her to an abrupt halt. Come to think of it, she pondered ruefully, this light-headedness was at the root of today’s afflictions. For the past few weeks, Grelle had suffered a spate of **bad days** , the sort where she was mercilessly assailed by the wrongess of a body that did not match who she was inside—the shoulders that were too broad, the Adam’s apple that lurked in her throat, and those things (those _damned_ things) that she hid from sight beneath frilly women’s undergarments. The sort of days when all the horrid little words— _mister_ , _him_ , the occasional, half-mocking _sir_ —struck her to the core with their bitter poison. And the gibes, the whispers when they thought she didn’t hear…

_Grelle Slutcliff, the whore of the Dispatch_.

_Look at him playing dress-up again, painted up like some tart on the streets of London_.

_What a bloody freak. He really has no shame, does he?_

Normally, such malicious taunts slid off like rainwater from a windowpane; after all, Grelle had spent decades learning to ignore them as best she could. But on her dark days, their sheer weight was suffocating. Little wonder, then, that she sought solace in one of the few areas over which she had at least a semblance of control: Food.

Or the lack thereof, to be more precise.

A lady ate like a bird, always taking care to maintain a slender, willowy figure. Since Grelle was a lady (she was, she _was_ , no matter what they said) it was only natural that she deny herself. The legendary Michelangelo once scrutinized a block of marble before carving diligently to free the angel trapped within, giving him strong, beautiful wings with which to soar. Grelle viewed herself in a similar light: The lovely, glittering woman she knew herself to be languished in darkness, a lost diamond encased within the dank, cheerless prison of Mr. Sutcliff’s body. Her only choice was to take up chisel and hammer, whittling herself down. Half portions, quarters, or, when she could manage it, nothing at all. Were not light, air, and dreams the very stuff of which angels were made? Surely, then, they comprised the finest meal for a woman, the most suitable diet. What did it matter if her stomach shrieked with hunger or an occasional bout of faintness caused her legs to buckle beneath her? Grelle sought to excavate herself, to liberate the lady who beat her fists so frantically against the walls that surrounded her. Beauty was pain, after all.

This entire day, for instance, her sole sustenance had been a dry, triangular piece of toast, barely two mouthfuls, and a cup of black coffee (BLACK—not a drop of milk or a granule of sugar!). Admittedly, she been a little light-headed, but it was a modest price to pay for the thought of coming an inch closer to the feminine physique, that eternal asymptote that remained tauntingly out of her reach. Then came a particularly troublesome reap: Henry Marlowe, age 25, life cut unexpectedly short by a charging bull that gored him to death. Shocked, bereft, the young man’s spirit had not gone gently, but raged at the loss of the precious future so callously snatched away by the caprice of fate. Thus had his resentful soul spawned the vile thorns of death, which could choke the life out of the harbingers of mortality themselves. Overtaken by a fit of giddiness, Grelle had not responded to this dire threat with her usual rapidity. In a trice, the thorns wrapped themselves vindictively around her leg. Though Grelle was able to disentangle herself and reap Henry Marlowe’s soul, the damage was done, forcing her to limp to her remaining destinations. To add another turn of the screw, Grelle’s last assignment of the day had been interrupted by a ravenous demon that sought to steal her quarry. Unlike Hannah or Bassy, this creature showed scant signs of intelligence, immediately resorting to brutal violence to remove the troublesome reaper that stood between it and the tantalizing soul it wished to consume. Hampered by her injury and weakened by self-imposed privation, Grelle had automatically been at a disadvantage. She eventually defeated the demon, but it was a near thing, and it managed to wreak havoc with its claws before her death scythe delivered the fatal blow. 

Under ordinary circumstances, the most practical solution to this debacle would have been to return posthaste to the reaper realm, where she could have availed herself of a vast, well-staffed hospital equipped with technology decades, if not centuries, ahead of Victorian medical practice. However, traveling from one world to another was no small matter. It required a certain minimum level of spiritual energy and focus that, in her current battered, exhausted state, Grelle simply did not have. Of course, she could certainly try, but the red reaper had heard plenty of lurid tales of what happened to those who attempted such a crossing when they were unequipped for the task—lost forever in the nightmarish limbo “between,” or torn asunder as flesh and sinew were ripped to shreds by the unseen fabric that knit worlds together. She shuddered. Grelle often leapt before she looked, but that grim prospect gave even her pause. More prudent to recuperate for a few hours and return home later in the evening.

As fate would have it, the location of her most recent reap was a reasonable distance from Hannah Annafellows’ current abode. After such a dreadful ordeal, Grelle craved her lover’s touch, her warmth. She still had enough presence of mind to head in the right direction, though she wasn’t sure how much longer she could go on…

Her eyes widened, and a surge of gladness lent renewed vigor to her weary frame. There it was! The cottage! Although dusk had unfurled its gossamer wings over the idyllic countryside, the cozy little dwelling was unmistakable. For the first time in days, a genuine smile brightened Grelle’s countenance. _Oh, darling, I’ve missed you so…_

As if on cue, Hannah burst forth from the entrance (with her demonic perception, she could easily sense Grelle’s presence), beaming as she cheerfully called out, “Well, this is a sur—” The words died on her lips as the demon’s shocked eyes took in Grelle’s wretched appearance. “What on earth happened?” Hannah cried in horror.

“I…” The reaper swayed, knees finally giving way. Hannah lunged forward in alarm, grabbing beneath her arms to provide support.

 “I-it’s merely…a few scratches. I just need…to rest. That’s all. Just…a-a little…rest,” Grelle wheezed. Ladies are perverse creatures. If she had truly suffered nothing but a scratch or two, she would have invoked all the pathos and melodrama she could muster, soliciting as much petting and pampering as Hannah was willing to bestow. Yet here she was, injured more severely than she had been in some time, desperately attempting to downplay her condition. Years of denigration and ridicule had forcibly taught Grelle Sutcliff that her deepest wounds were best kept hidden.

“Scratches!” Hannah exclaimed indignantly, glaring down at her lover with a ferocity that belied the sharp note of worry in her voice. “Do you take me for a fool? You’ve been gravely hurt, little one.” She leaned in closer, sniffing Grelle’s hair. “And it seems that one of my own kind is at least partially to blame.”

“A bloody awful day’s reaping…” Grelle murmured. Hannah shushed her.

“Not another word out of you until I’ve properly tended to those wounds, Miss Sutcliff. _Scratches_ ,” she muttered in disbelief, shaking her head and scolding the redhead as she escorted Grelle inside. She let the reaper place her death scythe by the door before carefully seating her in a comfortable, high-backed chair.

“Now, then…” Hannah mused as she knelt in front of Grelle, tapping her chin pensively. “I’m afraid I’ll have to take off your shirt so I can get a better look. These will likely require stiches.”

“Goodness me, you’re quite the randy one tonight, aren’t you? Disrobing your scarlet woman when she’s barely crossed the threshold,” Grelle quipped feebly, her bawdy sense of humor rising to the occasion.

Hannah merely sighed and shook her head, though the corners of her eyes crinkled in amusement before worry darkened them once more. She endeavored to remove the blouse as gently as possible, but Grelle was unable to prevent a hiss of pain from escaping between her clenched teeth. “I’m sorry,” the demon whispered apologetically. “Not to fret. It can’t be helped,” Grelle replied hoarsely. Hannah reached out and tenderly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, bringing a faint blush to Grelle’s cheeks. “I’ll be back in just a moment, dear. We’ll put you to rights.” Rising, she left the room, presumably in search of medical supplies.

Grelle sighed in quiet relief, closing her tired eyes as she leaned back in the chair. Kind hands that never struck and bruised her, soft words that comforted and sustained her…somehow, these few moments spent in Hannah’s presence were already making the broken places in her soul feel a little more whole.

Her ministering demon swiftly returned laden with bandages, needles, thread, dried herbs, a bowlful of warm water, and various and sundry other items. After Grelle briefly related the series of events that had reduced her to this current bedraggled state (conveniently omitting the fasts that would have put a monk to shame—no need to worry her), she sat meek as a lamb while Hannah closed the gaping gashes stitch by stitch, treated them with herbs and few incantations in a strange tongue (“to curtail infection. We demons are prone to inflicting blight and corruption on our victims”) and sponged the filth and grime from her body. Grelle noticed her brow furrow as her gaze scanned the reaper’s ribs, which stood out more prominently than in the past (But that was _good_ —they were elegant and refined now, like a delicate bird cage. _Très jolie femme, très belle femme!_ ) However, the demon moved on without comment, briefly unveiling her claws in order to slice away Grelle’s trouser leg before tending to the lacerations left by the thorns of death. (“Well, I was getting tired of these pants, anyway,” Grelle remarked glibly).

At last, Hannah’s work was complete, the woebegone reaper patched up and in much better spirits. The demon fetched a silken red nightgown (Grelle had taken to leaving a few changes of clothes at her lover’s house) and carefully slipped it over Grelle’s head. If she had been a cat, Grelle would have purred at the cool, delicious feel of it against her skin. After tidying away, Hannah paused for a moment before taking Grelle by the shoulders and giving her a stern yet anxious look.  

 “You’re not eating properly,” she accused, more of a statement than a question.

“I’m fine,” Grelle protested indignantly. Able to change form at whim to suit her every fancy, Hannah could not possibly understand the urgency she felt to change something, anything about her cursed body to make living in it a little more bearable. Besides, she reasoned to herself, there was certainly nothing wrong with foregoing a little food. What was the harm? No cost was too high to free the angel, the lady.

“You’re thinner than I’ve ever seen you,” the demon retorted hotly. “And I well know what you’re capable of in the field. You’d never have been hurt so grievously if you were in peak condition.”

“I’m telling you, I’m fi—"

“You are NOT fine, Grelle Sutcliff!” Hannah roared, patience snapping like a frayed thread. “Why would you neglect your person this way?”

A surge of frustration, rage, and hurt raced through Grelle’s blood. “What the hell would YOU know about it?!” she spat, venting her spleen. “YOU’VE never felt so trapped within your skin that you wanted to claw out the real person hiding beneath it, just below the surface but nowhere to be found. YOU’VE never had to look in the mirror and see some stranger, some _man_ , staring back at you—" Scalding tears welled up in Grelle’s eyes and poured down her face, a testament to her silent suffering.

Hannah stared in consternation before the light of understanding suddenly dawned within her eyes. “Your body and soul have been at war with one another,” she said slowly. Grelle had previously described these times of darkness to the demon as best she could, how they came and went with the same inevitability as the tide, but Hannah had never before witnessed Grelle crushed within the jaws of this despair, utterly unable to fight against it.

“For weeks now,” Grelle said haltingly. In a trice, she was enfolded by strong, loving arms. Hannah cradled her to her bosom, rocking gently. “Oh, little one,” demon whispered, kissing Grelle’s head and stroking her hair as the reaper quietly began to sob, clutching at Hannah with the desperation of a drowning woman. “It hurts. It hurts. _It hurts_. So much,” Grelle wept. “It’s like I’m wandering in a cold, endless night—no stars or moon to guide me. And so terribly, horribly _alone_ …” Sorrow quelled further speech.

For what might have been a great length of time or no time at all, the two knelt intertwined in eachother’s arms. Hannah was the first to break the silence that covered them like a shroud. “For all my power, I cannot make the horses of the night more fleet of foot, nor can I hasten Helios’s procession through the heavens. How I wish that I could.” Her embrace tightened. “But I will hold you until the darkness has passed.”

“Promise?” Grelle asked timidly.

“I promise.” Hannah drew back, cradling Grelle’s face in her hands with infinite care. “It may be locked away in a poor, unworthy vessel, but you have a lady’s heart, my reaper. You do not need to starve yourself into womanhood because you are already a woman.”

“You are precious to me, dear heart—my truest joy, the choicest jewel among all my treasures,” the demon concluded, kissing Grelle’s forehead in what the reaper felt was a benediction, the seal of the inexplicable gift of Hannah’s love for her.

 

***

With a bit of persuasion, Hannah gradually coaxed Grelle into enjoying a light repast of crumpets and tea. “Food is life, food is health, food is strength,” she insisted. “Eat, dear heart, and grow strong once more.” Truth be told, Grelle was immensely hungry, and she had always had a peculiar fondness for eating traditional breakfast dishes at late hours of the night, a quirk with which Hannah was familiar. So she ate, savoring the golden, buttery warmth of the crumpets, the soothing influence of the tea.

Hannah begged Grelle to stay the night, and the reaper was only too happy to oblige. The demon was a flower of darkness, yet her effulgence was finally casting out the shadows that had held Grelle’s mind captive, if only for a while. Grelle laughed in delight as Hannah scooped her up bridal-style and carried her to their bed, a knight ushering her fair maiden towards refuge.

 As they settled against the pillows, Grelle snuggled close, resting her head on Hannah’s chest, close to her heart. The demon ran her slender fingers through Grelle’s luxurious auburn hair, and, ever so softly, she began to sing in—was that Welsh? Grelle wasn’t quite sure.

    “ _Holl amrantau'r sêr ddywedant_

_Ar hyd y nos_

_"Dyma'r ffordd i fro gogoniant,"_

_Ar hyd y nos…”_

The silvery music washed over Grelle like a cleansing rain, the sort that would summon forth flowers from the earth once the clouds had dispersed. Her eyelids drooped. _I will hold you until the darkness has passed_. Demons normally reveled in deceit and treachery, but Grelle had utmost faith in Hannah’s sincerity. No harm could befall her while she lay in the fiend’s embrace. Hannah had succored her in her most dire need, and she would be there with Grelle to greet the morning when the sun illumined the earth once more, bringing vibrance and color to all it touched. Thus the reaper was slowly lulled to sleep by her lover’s song.

***

Hannah contemplated Grelle, noting with relief how serene the goddess’s face now was, like the calm, still waters of a lake. When Grelle had appeared at her door in such a pitiful state, it was as though Hannah’s own heart had been cleaved in two by the demonic sword she sheathed within her body. Annafellows was among the mightiest of her kind, yet even she could not hope to break the curse that had consigned Grelle to a form that, though beauteous and infinitely desirable, was ill-suited to the soul it housed. Like an angel trapped in stone, unable to fly. As Hannah hummed a strain of the ancient lullaby, a tear trickled down her cheek, falling softly on Grelle’s tresses. The demon was in the iron grip of an emotion that, despite centuries’ worth of knowledge and wisdom, she could not name. She would have been content to suffer Grelle’s fate through all eternity, or battled a legion, or died a hundred deaths, if that would have freed the reaper from her pain. It was akin to what she had felt for the boy Luka (poor, dear Luka), but more vast, all-encompassing. As if Grelle was a part of her own self, the fire burning in her soul, the very breath of her spirit. Was this what humans meant when they spoke of “love?”

_All I can do is hold you through the night, little one. Is that enough? Can that ever possibly be enough?_ Hannah wondered. However, looking down at Grelle’s sweet, peaceful smile, she was able to hope that her efforts were not in vain. Hannah held Grelle close, patiently awaiting the coming sunrise.

**Author's Note:**

> "The legendary Michelangelo...": According to some sources, it is said that Italian Renaissance painter, sculptor, and architect Michelangelo claimed to see an angel waiting to freed from a block of marble that he was carving. I'm no art historian and cannot attest to the accuracy of this story, but I felt that it was apropos to Grelle's situation here.
> 
> "thorns of death": These are mentioned in the second Kuroshitsuji musical, The Most Beautiful Death in the World. These thorns are produced by vengeful spirits that fight against the reapers who attempt to collect their souls. These thorns eventually stifle the heart, killing the afflicted reaper. There is no cure, though the sacrifice of one thousand pure souls is an alleged remedy. The thorns are the ultimate cause of Alan Humphries's death in the musical. I took some liberties with the idea here; though injured, Grelle is able to avoid their typical, lethal effects.
> 
> "ministering demon": This is an atrocious attempt at wit on my part. In the Christian tradition, ministering angels are believed to watch over us and tend to our needs. Here, Grelle has her own "guardian demon." :3
> 
> "Très jolie femme, très belle femme": (French) "A very pretty woman, a very beautiful woman." I headcanon that Grelle learned French in order to make herself more ladylike.
> 
> "horses of the night": From Christopher Marlowe's play Doctor Faustus. Near the end of the work, as Mephistopheles draws nigh, Faustus frantically utters a line from Ovid: "O lente, lente currite, noctis equi ("O slowly, run slowly, horses of the night!")," indicating his desperate wish for more time before his fate is sealed. Here, Hannah wishes the opposite-- that Grelle's emotional and spiritual "night" would draw to a close with all due speed.
> 
> "Helios": Greek god of the son
> 
> crumpets:Tasty, circular griddle cakes commonly eaten in the United Kingdom. The surface has numerous pores, which is ideal for the distribution of butter through an individual crumpet. 
> 
> chamomile tea: Purported to have a wide range of health benefits, chamomile tea is sometimes drunk to promote sleep and relaxation. It famously appears in Beatrix Potter's The Tale of Peter Rabbit, in which, following his narrow escape from Mr. McGregor's garden, Peter is given chamomile tea and sent to bed by his mother. I thought the connotations associated with this beverage would work nicely in the present context.
> 
> Ar Hyd y Nos (All Through the Night): A beloved (and hauntingly beautiful) Welsh tune. There are several English translations available. Some of these are more religious in tone. However, the version to which I was introduced in a youth chorale used a more secular/romantic translation in which the text was narrated from a lover's perspective. Unfortunately, my ignorance of Welsh prevents me from providing you an accurate translation, but the gist is that the singer is blessing the beloved (whether a child or a paramour) with peace, slumber, and divine protection "all through the night." In at least one version, the speaker promises to keep vigil over the object of affection. Since Hannah sings a Welsh lullaby in Season 2 of the anime, and the title fit beautifully with the themes I was aiming for, I couldn't resist including it.


End file.
